DISSECTION CLASS.

Peel the drenched cotton
From his tony face. Some
Wisps will stick to his
Stubble, like love-grass
There is nothing to fear.
Death is its own mask.

Next we move the scalpel
Across the chest, gradually
Down the arms, like a zipper.
This, to your untrained eye,
Can be considered beautiful.
Even if its only skin deep.

Expose the paths of the tendons.
Observe the nerves' many detours.
This arm is like yours, these fingers.
Consider this a new instrument:
A microscope working through mirrors.

The muscles ooze sighs under your tough.
The sliced arteriesuncover blood clots
Like broken wax crayons.
And bone is bone: the final resistance
Knocking against blade or teeth.

Marvel at the lungs, pyramids of air.
Weigh the liver like moonrock in your hands.
The hollowed ribcage in a swamp of formalin.
Yes, to hold an organ up like a trophy
Makes this less desecration, more archaeology.

But this is no fossil. No history, only
Biography. Yet even palmistry fails us now;
There is nothing written on
The papyrus of this skin. No echos
Of past lives, or a sense of deja vu:

Memory entering the head like a knife.
Hands slicing the heart in two.



The Amnesiac's Diary
A History of Amnesia
posted by halfpastfour- at 1:59 PM [edit]